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BLOOD FOR BLOOD 



A Legend of the 

"BIG ELM TREE" 



BY 



Granville Mellen Ballard 



INDIANAPOLIS 

THE HOLLENBECK PRESS 

1906 






Auth; 
<f*r 

(a 'Off 



TO JOHN MARSEE 

John says he sat on the blanketed knee 

Of Eagle-Eye in his round tepee, 

Under the famous Big Elm Tree, 

And taught that Chief his A, B, C, — 

And in return, the Indian, he 

Painted John's face a cardinal red, 

Then put a knife in his hand, and said: 

"Go scalp the troublesome Bumble Bee." 

John further says, and he ought to know, 

That the Big Elm Tree did nothing but grow, 

And finally reached the place where snow 

Is made — 

And it cast a shade 

A mile or so. 

Now, Indian Chief and round tepee 

And Big Elm Tree 

Are gone; 

But John, the book-reader, John Marsee, 

Who 

Is trying to read the library through, 

Still lives on. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Blood for Blood 9 

At Seventeen 25 

Zula Song 29 

September , 31 

Life 35 

The Suicide yj 

Grant 39 

Despondency and Hope 41 

The Skipper's Song 55 

An Idle Hour 59 

The Dream of His Youth 61 

Destiny 63 

Cupid and Psyche 65 

The Crab Apple Tree 69 

His Mother 73 

Gloucester yy 

At Crown Hill 79 

Two of a Kind 83 

Lines Recited by Blind Children 99 

Optimistic 101 

Across the Dunes My Nannie Waits 103 

Lux et Tenebrae 105 

The Old Man Dreams 109 

The Morning of Immortality in 



Pipe away, pipe away, 
In the topmost bough of the tree all day, 
Biy the some bird, in the early spring; 
Perch on the hawthorn hedge and sing — 
Call the bee from her winter cell, 
For under the briers and in the dell, 
The buttercups bend with honey-dew. 
The -fields and lanes are carpeted new — 
Make the forest with melody ring — 
Sing, little songsters, sing, sing. 



(From the Indianapolis Sentinel of 18 . .) 
Near the intersection of Virginia avenue and 
South street stands a lofty elm tree, which has 
withstood the storms and tornadoes of ages, and 
afforded shelter to the red man before the star of 
empire had reached this latitude on its march of 
civilization. This grand old tree was admired by 
the untutored savage as the monarch of the for- 
est, and the woodman's ax has spared it as a 
landmark of the early settlement of this section. 
Like the famous Charter Oak, it has passed into 
song and story. There is a beautiful and romantic 
Indian legend connected with this grand old elm, 
which some years ago was made the subject of a 
fine poem by Mr. Granville M. Ballard, one of 
our most gifted poets. Since the old elm has 
commenced to decay, and is fast traveling the 
way of all things of earth, we republish the beau- 
tiful poem by request of our readers. As it is a 
local effusion, it should be preserved by all who 
dherish the associations of the early history of 
our city. 

The Indian, the tepee and the trail disappeared 
at the advent of the white man, and the Big Elm 
Tree could not withstand the mansion and the 
paved street, and it, too, has disappeared. 




8 



BLOOD FOR BLOOD 



A BALLAD OF THE "BIG ELM TREE" 



Red was the sun in autumn, 

And the sumac's berries were red ; 

The sky had a trace of gray low down, 
With a blend of blue overhead. 

The goldenrod was flowerless, 
The alder's leaves were gone, 

And the crown of the oak and the maple 
Were turning yellow and brown. 

From caverns came the west-wind, 

Where slept her fairy clan, 
And over the strings of nature's harp 

Her nimble fingers ran. 

She played, and the nervous aspen 
Laughed, while the beech tree slept, 

And the tulip tree and the walnut 
In purple and russet wept. 

It was a mournful music — 
A dirge for falling leaves — 

A solace for saddened hearts that bore 
The burden of garnered sheaves. 

9 




10 



Such was the mellow season 

From mountain range to the sea, 

When Arrow-Head, Elk and Eagle-Eye sat 
Under the "Biff Elm Tree." 



i t> 



Sad and sullen they sat, 

Dreamers at noon of day — 
They looked intently at the earth, 

But neither a word did say. 

From noon till night they sat 

Under the "Big Elm Tree," 
Then Arrow-Head, chief of the Delawares, 

Stood up, and thus spake he : 

"Brothers, this day we've passed 

In sorrow for the dead ; 
'Blood for blood' was the olden law 

That turned our fathers red. 

"Swift as the fallow deer 
I vow to speed away, 
Nor heed the elk nor the buffalo, 
Till I the pale-face slay." 

He knit his brow in wrath — 

He scowled on earth and sky, 
And the hot revenge that warmed his blood 

Shot fire from his eye. 

ii 




12 



And all was still again 

Beneath the Big Elm Tree, 
Only its whispering leaves were heard, 

Telling of tragedy. 

Then Elk, an Indian brave, 

Grim as the twilight oak, 
Arose, silently as the moon, 

And these words fiercely spoke : 

'Black is the evil bird — 

Black are the wings of night — 
For the pale-face man, whose heart is black, 

My arrows are feathered white. 

'Over the dreary moor, 

And over the steep hillside — 
Over the prairies and through the wood, 

And over the rivers wide — 

'Early and late and long — 

Through rain and drifting snow — 

Where the trail leads over the mountain top, 
In quest of blood I'll go." 

Silence followed his speech. 

But for the panther's scream 
In the far-off depths of the forest, 

Silence reigned supreme. 

13 




14 



Eagle-Eye next arose — 

Of all his race the pride ; 
In tragic speech he then bewailed 

The virtues of his dead bride : 

"Blacker than raven's wing 
Was my Po-ko-ma's hair — 
Fleeter the horse Po-ko-ma rode 
Than, fleeing wolf or bear, 

"Lighter than tread of fawn 
Was my Po-ko-ma's step — 
Brighter than rising sun her dreams, 
When at my side she slept. 

"Her laugh was that of waters, 
Heard when day declines — 
Her voice was the voice of summer 
As heard in the oaks and pines. 

"Her song awoke the heron, 

And silenced the whip-poor-will ; 
It rang out over the marshes, 
And the army of ducks was still. 

"O eagle upon your nest, 

And sleeping wolf and bear — 

O bufTalo calf and wounded bull, 
Of the pale-face man beware ! 

15 




i6 



"With equal pride he kills 

The she-wolf nursing her young 
And the red-man's squaw, alone in the lodge, 
With her faithful bow unstrung. 

"The war path eastward leads, 

Where yet the stars are bright — 

'Blood for blood' is the red man's law, 
And I'm for blood to-night !" 

Then all was still again, 

Beneath the "Big Elm Tree"— 

Only the whispering leaves were heard, 
Telling of tragedy. 

And when the blushing sky 

Told of the coming day, 
Arrow-Head, Elk and Eagle-Eye 

Were many a mile away. 

Onward through beechen groves 
And thickets of wild paw-paw — 

Feeding upon the hickory nut 
And on the ripening haw — 

Over the mighty rivers, 

And over the winding rills, 
And over a thousand shadowy vales, 

And over a thousand hills — 

17 




i8 



Onward they held their way, 
Through many a day and night, 

Until the mountains had risen to view 
And then were lost to sight. 

And when the vernal sun 

With snow-storms played bo-peep, 
And the honk of the wild goose wakened 

The bear from its winter sleep — 

When on south-sloping hillsides 

Buttercups bloomed unseen, 
And willows on the marsh-lands 

Were turning the faintest green, 

Before the red avengers 

The Susquehanna flowed, 
And in its peaceful valley 

A dozen houses stood. 

One from all the rest 

Nestled among the trees, 
Whose bare arms welcomed the coming 

Of birds and the summer breeze. 

Within it a maiden stood, 

Fairer than lilies are fair, 
And she was leisurely combing 

Her tresses of raven hair. 

19 




20 



She was the beautiful Inez — 

A maiden of noble birth ; 
No fairer form than hers was there 

In all the zones of earth. 

One year before she came 

From silvery Guadalquivir, 
Never to strike the sweet guitar 

Again upon that river. 

Don Rodriga, her brother, 

A hunter devoid of fear, 
Was far away in the mountains, 

Trailing the bear and the deer. 

Stealthily as the hungry wolf 

Steals on the fawn at play, 
Eagle-Eye scaled the picket walls 

And bore her, captive, away. 

Into the silent forest, 

Where wingless shadows lie, 

Where solitude trails her somber skirts 
And owls at mid-day fly — 

Into the sullen forest 

They led the helpless one, 
Nor left the trail of moccasin, 

Nor heard the fire of gun. 

21 




22 



And when the morning dawned, 

The captive and the three 
Had journeyed in silence many a league 

Toward the "Big Elm Tree." 

For there Po-ko-ma was killed 

By heartless Rodriga, 
And thither they followed a winding trail, 

For many a sun-lit day. 

^j hj ^ * * ^ * 

September's sun had lost 

The glare of August days, 
And goldenrod in wealth of bloom 

Hedged in the fields of maize. 

On stagnant pond and sluggish stream, 

And on the dank lagoon 
Where lily-pads were motionless, 

The lilies were in bloom 

When she who once had lived 

In halls beyond the tide 
Knelt, a captive, under the tree 

Where young Po-ko-ma died. 

As Eagle-Eye bent his bow 

He scowled, and only said: 
'Blood for blood was the old-time law 

That turned our fathers red." 

23 



Thus died the beautiful maiden 
Who came from over the sea — 

Came from the Susquehanna — 
Came to the "Big Elm Tree." 



agan 



Then all was 

Und Elm Tree 

; eaves 
Have v, &d of tragedy. 




24 



AT SEVENTEEN 

Behold, he stands 

Where golden sands 
And bright-hued shells begirt life's sea — 

His full-orbed eye 

Reads in the sky 
No sign of storm that is to be. 

Parental halls 

And garden walls 
His restless feet can not restrain ; 

He tip-toe stands, 

Beholding lands 
That rise beyond the rolling main. 

He looks and longs 

And hears the songs 
That ocean syllables at play — 

Of islands green 

That lie unseen 
Beyond the outer gates of day. 

25 




26 



His ardent breast 

Feels that unrest 
And longing for the bright unknown- 

That vague untold 

That must enfold 
The unpossessed as all its own. 

The inward fire 

Of grand desire 
Feeds all the passions of his soul ; 

He aspires to rise 

Above the skies, 
And view the lands from pole to pole. 

O wanton boy, 

With phantoms toy 
While hope is strong and fancy free ; 

Go gather shells 

Where ocean swells, 
And watch thy ships go out to sea. 



27 




28 



ZULA ZONG 

Like a rose in arctic land — 
Like a name writ in the sand — 
Like the ending of a song, 
Was the life of Zula Zong. 
It was like some fairy tale, 
Told in an Arcadian vale — 
It was all a dream of love, 
Told by angels from above. 

As the waters to the sea, 
So was Zula Zong to me — 
As the blue is to the sky, 
So to Zula Zong was I. 
And I loved thee, Zula Zong, 
As the poet loves his song. 
For thy life was one sweet smile, 
Without envy, without guile. 



29 




30 



SEPTEMBER 

Where summer ends, yet softly blends 
Her emerald green with golden dyes ; 

And autumn waits to unbar her gates, 
The golden-haired September lies. 



'Twas in September, years ago — " 

Thus Edwin Armstrong writes to me — 

"When I, a boy but ten years old, 
And sister, who was five and three, 

"Went hand in hand through beechen grove, 
And down the pasture-leading lane — 
Through stubble fields and meadows mown, 
And into shadowy woods again. 

"We lingered in the tangled dell 

To hear the mother robin's song — 
We loitered where the rushes grow, 
And by the brookside rested long. 

"We strolled, with hand in hand, for miles, 
Unmindful of the devious way ; 
Enraptured by the song of birds, 
We heeded not the waning day. 

31 




32 



a 



'But somehow, somewhere in the woods, 
I lost her hand — she missed my step, 

And when the dove had ceased to call, 
And darkness o'er the landscape crept, 

I stood alone beneath the stars 

And listened for her plaintive call ; 

But barren wold and woods were still, 
And silence brooded over all. 

'I called, as children in the night, 
But no one answered, 'Here am V — 

The voices of the day were mute — 
Not even echo made reply. 



"Each year I watch the circling months 
March all their varied seasons by, 
Until September weaves her veil 
Of Indian summer in the skv. 

"It bears a message of that day 

When we two wandered hand in hand ; 
It tells how bright was once the sky, 
How free of shadow was the land. 



33 



"O friend, September brings to you 
The brown of fields, the blue of skies ; 

To me it speaks of nut-brown cheeks, 
And of the blue of long-lost eyes." 



Where summer ends, yet softly blends 
Her emerald green with golden dyes ; 

And autumn waits to unbar her gates, 
The golden-haired September lies. 




34 



LIFE 

O spring, and summer and fall — 
O bud, and blossom and fruit — 

Ye tell the story of life, 

But winter, like death, is mute. 

O morning, and noon and night — 
O hope and faith and love, 

Ye speak of the life we live, 
And whisper of that above. 

Youth, and manhood and age — 
The past, the present, to come — 

A silver-stringed harp — 
A lute and a muffled drum. 



35 




36 



THE SUICIDE 

The moon came out from behind a cloud, 
And laid on the ice-bound river a shroud. 

A sycamore leaned its leafless head 
Over the white-shrouded river — dead. 

The faltering wind, without pulse or breath, 
Fell when it touched the river of death. 

A figure like woman's, clad in white, 

Came out of the woods down there last night, 

And stood alone in the cold moonlight. 

She scanned the river and said : "Not there" — 
She smiled at the sycamore, bent and bare — 
Then moved her lips a moment in prayer. 



This morning the sun came out of his bed, 

And neighbor unto his neighbor said : 

She hangs to the limb of the sycamore — dead. 5 



37 




38 



GRANT 



! 



Behold, behold! 
Upon the star-gemmed pinnacle of fame 
Is written his immortal name, 
And men in all the zones of earth proclaim 
That it shall shine until the stars wax old. 

'Tis known 
In every land where freedom has a song, 
And where, beneath centuries of wrong, 
God-imaged creatures burdened lie, yet long 
To stand erect and cease to suffer and to groan. 

'Tis spoken 
Wherever scars of battle are yet worn, 
Or deeds of valor done, or banners borne 
Aloft in victory, or where mourn 
In bonds the slave whose shackles are unbroken. 

His name 
Shall echo down the converging aisles of time, 
With that of him who purged a nation's crime — 
Shall echo to every act that is sublime, 
In endless reverberations of his fame. 



39 



J 




40 



DESPONDENCY AND HOPE 

Despondency called on Time in the night, 
While he sat in his loft with a lamp for a light. 
The blink of an owl and the poppy's perfume, 
And a nod from Time at his intricate loom, 
Were the only welcomes the visitor read 
When he entered the Weaver's presence, and said : 

"O Time, I can not upright stand — 
Take thou my thin and wrinkled hand. 
So dim has grown my anxious eye, 
I scarcely see thy shuttle fly ; 
So dull has grown my listening ear, 
Thy shuttle I can scarcely hear. 
Thy roof is rent, and starlight falls 
Upon thy dimly lighted walls ; 
The bat flies in and out thy door, 
And lizards steal across thy floor. 

"O Time, I trail the mountain side, 
Where thorns are thick and lions hide : 
There vultures rest the tired wing, 
And eagles scream, but never sing. 
Along that trail no sign-boards stand 
To point me to the better land — 

41 




42 



Take thou my thin and trembling hand, 
And lead me to the better land. 

'O Time, along the ocean shores 

Lie broken spars and useless oars, 

And ships, full manned, in depths profound, 

Eternal anchorage have found. 

Fame whispers to the listening ear, 

And crowds are crowding crowds to hear ; 

While mammon leads the chariot race, 

The idle fill the market place. 

'O Time, the weary, weary plod — 
The rocky road, the smiting rod — 
The bruised feet, the sandals torn, 
The yoke too heavy to be borne ; 
I scarcely see the stars above — 
I scarcely see thy shuttle move — 
Take thou my waiting hand in thine, 
And lead me up the steep incline. 

'O Time, thy lamp burns low, and night 
Is on the verge of day. Light 
Mellows all the eastern sky, 
And ghosts and ghouls to caverns fly. 
The poppy puts thy owl to sleep, 
And thou canst scarce thy vigils keep. 



43 




44 



O Time, thy lamp is flickering low — 
Thy shuttle seems to stop — I go." 

There are many who call when the shadows lie 
On the green of the hills and the blue of the sky — 
When the wing of the bat stirs the air of the cave, 
And the wolf is alert and the cougar is brave. 
For these, Time ever is weaving at night 
Sable ribbons of life, with a lamp for a light. 

Hope was the name of a beautiful girl, 
With a placid brow and a wealth of curl, 
Who called on Time at the noon of day, 
While he sat in his temple, weaving away. 
The pink of her cheek was the blush of the morn, 
When the hunter goes forth with his hound and 

his horn ; 
The red of her lips was the red of the sky, 
When day reclines on his couches to die ; 
And the dimple that nestled at ease in her chin 
Was the mark that was left when hope entered in. 
She stood in Time's presence familiarly, 
And said : "O Weaver, a message for thee — " 
The Weaver held his shuttle and smiled, 
And said : "Speak on, my beautiful child." 

"O Time, thou speakest well to say 
'My child/ for in that distant day 



45 




4 6 



When I was born, thy beard was white ; 
When it was said, 'Let there be light,' 
My rainbows had not spanned the world, 
Nor had my banners been unfurled 
Until the day in which God said : 
'Her seed shall bruise the serpent's head.' 

"O Time, my gilded temples stand 
On every hill in every land ; 
Their doors swing wide on hinge of gold, 
At easy touch of young and old. 
I've built a lighthouse on each shore 
Where rocks abound and breakers roar. 
Wherever tide and shore-line meet, 
I've left the imprint of my feet. 
I speak through all the lullabys 
That woo to sleep the infant's eyes — 
I sing each bar of wedding strain, 
And march in every funeral train. 

"O Time, the murmurings of the sea, 
Are full of messages to thee ; 
I saw a ship by tempest tossed, 

Without a rudder or a sail — 
The crew said : 'Captain, are we lost ?' 

And then the Captain's face grew pale. 
He calmly said : 'Cast anchor, lads — 

Hope is our anchor in the gale' — 



47 




48 



Then scanned the sea with hopeful eye, 
And lo ! a sail a league away. 

Time, he hears thy shuttle fly, 

And sends a thousand thanks to-day. 

'And they, where rainbow never spans, 
Greet thee with hopeful, outstretched hands. 

1 found the Nomad in his tent, 
Where stately palms delight to grow ; 

He sees the valley verdureless, 

Yet hopes the Nile will soon o'erflow — 
He looks on sphinx and pyramid, 

But dreams of rivers born of snow. 
Although his lips are dry from thirst, 

I never heard those lips complain — 
His message is : 'Give length of days, 

And make the Nile o'erflow again.' 

'In dungeon dark, and sunless cell, 

There lingers Hope, but comes farewell — : 

I stood behind the prison's bars, 

And held a hand that smote a friend ; 
Nor priest, nor bleeding sacrifice 

For his rash act could make amend. 
Through smoking flax and bruised reed, 

He hopes for immortality — 
His message is to God alone — 

O Time, he sends farewells to thee." 



49 




50 



"Sweet child, the fragrance of thy breath 
Brings color to the faded cheek. For thee 

The violets bloom, and song birds sing — 
Sing, ere you go, the song of Hope for me." 

"Dost hear the joyful call of those 

Who need the touches of my hand ? — 
They call, but not impatiently — 
O Time, I sing at thy command : 

"There's a morrow all bright, 
There is fruit without blight, 
And the mocking-bird sings her sweet song in the 

night. 
The desert has more than one fountain, O Time — 
The sunshine encircles the mountain sublime, 
And He who pilots the stars through the sky 
Hears the call of the kid and the young raven's 
cry. 

"An old story I've read 
Of a prophet who said : 
'There's a path which the lion's whelp never may 

tread ; 
There's a highway unseen by the eagle's strong 

eye, 
And a ladder that leads from the earth to the sky.' 



51 




52 



Weaver, thy shuttle is burnished with gold, 
And the fabric thou weavest shall never grow old. 

"O Time, I must go 
To the regions of snow, 
And to lands where the citron and pomegranate 

grow — 
To islands that lie in the calm of the sea, 
Where the oriole sings in the juniper tree. 

1 leave thee, O Time, in thy temple of light, 
Where there are no shadows, and never comes 

night." 

There are many who call in the sheen of the day 
On the white-bearded Weaver who welcomes 

their stay ; 
They bear aloft banners that guidon life's trail, 
And point to the headlands beyond the green vale. 
They walk upon roses, in trouble they sing, 
And plunder the bee without feeling its sting. 

In his lamp-lighted loft or his shadowless hall 

Time sits at his loom and weaves for us all. — 

For pilgrims who sit by the moaning sea, 

And look for lost ships despondingly, 

He weaves the dream of a bygone day, 

When the dreamer's ships sailed out of the bay — 



53 



Sailed over the bar and out in the sea, 

Whose shores are the shores of eternity. 

For those who cheerily work and sing, 

In leafless winter and budding spring, 

He weaves the rainbows of hope in the sky, 

And he weaves white wings that the weary may 

fly 
To that city whose splendors have never been told, 
Whose walls are of jasper and streets are of gold. 




54 



THE SKIPPER'S SONG 

We walked along the busy quay, 
Fair Isabel and I. The sea 
Was still. Inside the bay 
A Spanish ship at anchor lay, 
Whose skipper sang with sweet refrain : 
"Beyond the sea lies fairest Spain." 
Awake ! O memory, and tell 
Of skipper's song and Isabel. 

I spoke to her of other skies, 
Where rockies and sierras rise ; 
Of sylvan shades and mountain rills, 
And placid lakes among the hills. 
She only heard that sweet refrain — 
"Beyond the sea lies fairest Spain." 

In words like these I spake again, 
While skipper sang his merry strain : 
"I know a land, sweet Isabel, 
Of goldenrod and asphodel, 
Where pipes the lark all summer long, 
And throbs the catbird's throat with song — 

55 



rx 




56 



" 'Tis where the sunset's amber glow 
Enfolds the emerald earth. — Wilt go?" 
My plea was lost in that refrain — 
"Beyond the sea lies fairest Spain." 
O memory, yet prolong the spell, 
Prolong my plea with Isabel. 

"The sea is treacherous," I said, 
"And holds in strong embrace its dead. 
Between the far and hither shore 
The storm-king revels evermore, 
And ships go down." This answer fell 
From lips of fairest Isabel : 

"The sea is calm, the ship is strong — 
And list ! I hear the skipper's song — 
He sings and calls and beckons me, 
To come to him and sail the sea. 
He sings — and sings — O sweet refrain 
'Beyond the sea lies fairest Spain.' " 
O memory, cease, nor further tell 
Of skipper's song and Isabel. 



57 




58 



AN IDLE HOUR 

'Twas in the month when roses bloom, 

And larks first learn to spread the wing — 
When God says to His song birds : "Sing/ 

And to His flowers : "Give forth perfume." 

How long ago? I only know 

I whistled — whistled my first tune 
One idle hour in leafy June — 

So long ago — so long ago. 

I had been chasing butterflies 
Down in the meadow near the run 
That still goes singing to the sun 

And still reflects cerulean skies ; 

Till wearied, if a boy may be, 

I sought the cool embrace of shade 
Where singing brook a circuit made 

To bathe the roots of aspen tree. 

No marring foot but mine had pressed 
The virgin grass that summer day — 
No village boys were there at play — 

Secure the robin warmed her nest. 

59 



And there the linnet piped her lay 
To linnet in the sighing birch, 
And cat-bird from his lofty perch 

Sang anthems to the listening jay. 

The quaking asp — the sighing birch — 
The wagon rumbling o'er the bridge — 
The crowing cock across the ridge — 

The running brook — I, whistling, heard. 

And this vague query added joy 
That idle hour in leafy June, 
Long years ago in life's new moon : 

Could Adam whistle when a boy ? 




60 



THE DREAM OF HIS YOUTH 

The dream of his youth 

Was the dream of a day 
That should dawn on his life, 

When the nation would say : 
Let him stand with his peers 

In the temple of fame, 
And high on its dome 

Emblazon his name ; 
In the volume of heroes 

Inscribe it in gold — 
With the great and the good 

Let his name be enrolled. 
But never dreamed he 

Of a name in the sand, 
Or of bubbles that break 

At the touch of a hand. 

The dream of his youth 

W r as the dream of a day 
When the sails of his ships 

Would whiten the bay ; 
When his flocks and his herds 

Would range on the hills, 
And spindles unnumbered 

Would turn in his mills ; 

61 



When mines would be his 

With their silver and gold, 
And his wealth be a wonder 

For men to behold. 
But never dreamed he 

That riches could fly, 
And leave one to drink 

Of the bitter and die. 

The dream of his youth 

Was the dream of a day 
When love would command 

And he would obey ; 
When roses would bloom 

And thistles would die, 
And clouds would not blur 

The blue of the sky ; 
When the ripple of waters 

That toy with the shore 
Should wantonly kiss 

The sands evermore. 
But never dreamed he 

That kisses grow cold, 
And love is a laggard 

When wrinkled and old. 



62 






DESTINY 

I saw a child with flaxen hair, 
Two summers old, they said ; 

Its eyes were blue as desert skies — 
Its lips were touched with red. 

I knew a man, infirm with age, 
Whose faltering step was slow ; 

His eye had lost its power to flash — 
His beard was like the snow. 

When violets were blooming wild 
And birds were all a-mating, 

One, Madge, the little waif, was called — 
The old man still is waiting. 

I saw two ships with stately masts, 

As like as ships could be — 
The same breeze filled their gallant sails, 

And bore them out to sea. 

One safely reached the destined port — 
O day of song and gladness ! — 

The other's fate remains unknown — 
O silent years of sadness ! 

6 3 






Two babes were rocked to sleep at night, 
With equal love and yearning — 

As boys they led the village sports, 
And vied at school in learning. 

They grew to manhood full of hope 

And highest aspiration — 
In after life one taught a school, 

The other ruled a nation. 




6 4 



CUPID AND PSYCHE 

Cupid and Psyche together 
Stood on a Grecian isle — 

One of the classic seven 

That make the old sea-god smile. 

Afar on the ^Egean were traces 
Of the coming king of day, 

And the flush of his advent reddened 
The brow of the new-born May. 

Cupid had neither mantle 
Nor girdle nor sandal on — 

Night was the gown which Psyche 
Had worn — but night was gone. 

Cupid drew Psyche gently 
And tenderly to his breast ; 

The ripe haw is not redder 

Than the lips that Cupid pressed. 

Have Cupid and Psyche parted, 

Uttering, each, farewell? 
Has the feast of roses ended ? 

Let an old legend tell. 

65 




66 



A legend that sets a-dreaming 

Knight and shepherd and swain — 

The youth and the maiden sing it 
Over and over again. 

It is breathed in the halls of pleasure, 
It is whispered beneath the yew — 

It shadows the life of the lone one, 
The fickle one and the true. 

It runs through the checkered lifeway, 
As through the lattice the vine — 
"Cupid from his love parted, 
Or never had I from mine." 



67 




68 



THE CRAB APPLE TREE 

The winter winds blew 
Over stubble and through 

The boughs of the Crab Apple Tree ; 
Though cold were the days, 
How bright was the blaze 

When Robin first came to see me. 

The blue birds of May 

Sang sweetly away 
High up in the Crab Apple Tree, 

When, hanging his head, 

Robin timidly said : 
'Dear Mary, I love only thee." 

The clover had spread 

Its white summer bed 
Beneath the old Crab Apple Tree, 

Said Robin : "I'm thine, 

If thou wilt be mine — 
Say, Mary, wilt thou not have me ?" 

69 




/O 



The roses were dead 

And apples hung red 
In the top of the Crab Apple Tree, 

And yellow and sear 

Hung the corn in the ear, 
When Robin was married to me. 

The winter and spring 

Will evermore bring 
Dear thoughts of the Crab Apple Tree, 

And summer and fall 

Will ever recall 
Their bygones to Robin and me. 



71 



^ 




72 



HIS MOTHER 

I knew an orphan once — 
He trod alone the busy thoroughfares, 
And all the by-ways of his native place, 
And on strange faces gazed and turned away, 
For none gave back the image of his mother. 
Some one, responsive to his sighs, 
Told him that she had gone above the clouds; 
And so he climbed the city's highest tower, 
That he might look uninterruptedly 
And scan the far-off skies in search of her. 

One Sabbath day, 
When peal and chime of bells had called 
The people from their cares, 
I first beheld him by me in the pew. 
In minor chords the massive organ spoke 
With simple melody, then like the blast of trum- 
pets 
When the charge of cavalry is on, 
It filled the vaulted arches of the roof ; 
But all the while the boy's sad eyes 
Were turned on the incoming throng, 
And on each face he gazed enquiringly. 
But when the ponderous-lidded Bible ope'd, 

73 



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74 



And these words fell from reverend lips : 

"She is not dead, but sleepeth," 

He turned on me his eager eyes and said : 

"Is it my mother that he means ?" 

At intervals our lines of life have crossed, 

And we are friends. 

Since last we met, 
His weary feet have pressed the shores 
Of many lands, and he has gazed 
On classic temples of the famed east, 
And underneath Hesperian skies has strode. 

O noble man — dear friend of yore — 
Sweet boy that sat with me at church — 
Each message that he sends is fragrant 
With the bloom of hope which does not die, 
And each one closes with these tender words 
"She is not dead, but sleepeth." 




7 6 



AV 



GLOUCESTER 



Tell me which way the winds are blowing — 

Whether from east or the west ; 
And does the weather-vane nervously turn, 
Or steadily stand at rest? 
Are the winds a-blowing the white-capped sea, 
And the weather-vane restlessly turning ? Tell me. 

Tell me which way the tide is flowing — 

Whether from sea or the land ; 
And does it carry bright shells ashore, 
And bury them in the sand ? 
Is the tide flowing in from an angry sea, 
And washing ashore bright shells? Tell me. 

Tell me which way the clouds are going — 

Whether to sea or to land ; 
And do they blacken the ocean's breast, 
And shadow the golden sand? 
Do the clouds lie low on a darkened sea, 
And shadows envelop the sands ? Tell me. 

Tell me which way the gulls are flying — 

Whether if low or if high ; 
And do they circle the open sea 

Or under the lee-shore fly? 

77 



Are the gulls flying low on the crest of the sea, 
Or under the lee-shore resting? Tell me. 

If the winds are landward blowing to-day. 

And the weather-vane nervously turning each 

way; 
If the clouds are flying from ocean to land, 
And sea-gulls seeking a lee-shore strand — 
Then the lad I'm thinking of, far on the sea, 
Is furling his sails and thinking of me. 




78 



AT CROWN HILL 
(spoken on first decoration day) 

With crepe upon our banners 

And arms reversed, we meet 
In memory of soldiers 

Sepulchered at our feet. 
They are the voiceless heroes 

Who spoke where the field was red — 
Spoke when the captain ordered — 

"Fire from behind the dead." 

They came from country and village, 

From crowded city and plain ; 
They marched in the sultry sunshine, 

And pillowed their heads in rain. 
They heard the blast of the bugle, 

And quickly answered its call — 
"Form in line of battle — 

Infantry, troopers, all." 

Some of these dropped by the wayside, 
Some while on picket were shot — 

Some fell in the skirmish, 

Some where the battle raged hot. 

79 




8o 



But alas for the youthful soldier, 

Alas for the veteran gray, 
Who languished in pitiless prisons, 

Where the Reaper, Death, held sway — 

Dreaming of skies he could not see — 

Hoping, where hope was vain, 
To break his guarded prison bars 

And breathe free air again. 
Yearning for wife and children — 

Yearning to be caressed, 
Or longing with broken spirit 

To be, like these, at rest. 

Over these dead nine hundred 

Fold the flag of the brave, 
While the marching column halts to plant 

A flag at each soldier's grave. 
Violets, pinks and daisies — 

Roses and lilies bring, 
When the apple trees are in blossom 

And the lark and the linnet sing. 



81 




82 



TWO OF A KIND 

A LEGEND OF PIONEER DAYS IN INDIANA 

Farmer Green was a pioneer 

Of the early days at the west ; 
He entered his land and tilled it by hand, 

And his larder with plenty was blest. 

He had horses and cattle and lofty barns, 

And meadows and pastures green, 
And his hearthstone was bright from the angelic 
light 

Of a daughter of seventeen. 

Among her beaux were two bright lads — 

The sons of old neighbor Gray ; 
They were twins of one size — of one age likewise, 

And both had a liking one way. 

Each sought the favor of beautiful Rose, 

Openly or by stealth — 
One her heart with her hand — not her acres of 
land — 

While the other thought well of her wealth. 

83 




8 4 



These lads were alike in gesture and speech, 

In manner of walk and play ; 
And the gossips all said Rose had promised to 
wed 

Both twins of old neighbor Gray. 

One morning in early October, 

These lads, so the legend goes, 
By each other unseen, went to see farmer Green 

And ask for the hand of Rose. 

They leisurely rode on roundabout ways 
They had seldomly traveled before, 

When t surprised at their fate, they met at the gate 
Of the farmer, who stood at his door. 

They looked at each other in wonder, 

But neither uttered a word — 
Their horses neighed, and the farmer said, 

In a voice which the household heard : 

"What would you here so early ? 

And why together, pray?" 
He knew at a glance they had met by chance, 

For they never both called the same day. 



85 




86 



"Speak out," said the sturdy farmer, 

"Let your errand be quickly told." 
He divined their intent, but wittingly meant 

That each should his mission unfold. 

"A pleasant morning this, sir — " 

Stammered out one in fear. 
"As ever I've seen," said old farmer Green, 

"But what is it brought you here?" 

"Are you all well at home, sir ?" 

Responded the other lad. 
"We are always well — but will you not tell — 

Have you tidings good or bad ?" 

"I was passing this way, and thought that — " 
"Thought what ?" said the farmer. "Well, then, 

I was passing this way, and thought I would say 
That perhaps I would call again." 

"You trifle with me," said farmer Green — 
"Now tell me — what would you here? 

Let the truth be told — speak out and speak bold — 
You've nothing from me to fear." 

"I came to ask for your daughter," 

Responded the boldest youth. 
"And I," said the other, the more modest brother, 

"Would ask for her hand, in truth." 

87 




88 



"You can not both marry my daughter," 
Said the farmer, without a frown ; 

"But if you're agreed, you may try your speed 
On the by-ways from here to town ; 

"And the one that gets the license 
And returns with it here this e'en, 

Shall have Rose's hand and be heir to my land, 
With the blessing of farmer Green. 

"Now speed away on your journey," 

Said the farmer, with a smile ; 
"And make no delay — to the village away — 

It is distant a good thirty mile." 

Into the forest primeval 

The horses plunged with affright — 
Each went his own way to the village that day, 

Intent on the prize at night. 



The old-time village of Post Vincennes 
Was bathed in the mellow light 

Of the autumn haze, when the sleepy gaze 
Of the villagers met the sight 



89 




90 



Of a stranger riding a foam-flecked horse 

With nostrils distended wide, — 
"Surely some one is sick," said Doctor Quick — 

"111 saddle my horse for a ride." 

But the stranger galloped swiftly 

To the court-house over the way, 
Where the dozing clerk was soon at work 

On a license for Albert Gray. 

"Albert Gray and Rosalind Green — 

One dollar, my lucky boy : 
May you both have health and oceans of wealth, 

And an unbroken chain of joy." 

Again the sleepy clerk relapsed 

Into dozing as before, 
When, dreaming of fees and living at ease, 

He awoke by a rap at the door. 

"Come — give me a license, I pray thee — 

My name ? It is Edward Gray." 
Half asleep, half awake, the good clerk spake 

In a petulant kind of way : 

"Have you lost the one I gave you ? 

Then you do not deserve the lass." 
Bowing his head, the bashful boy said : 

"I rode in such haste, sir — alas." 

9i 




4i \ 



92 



''Another fee for your reckless ride — 
I wish you much joy once more. 

May Green turn Gray at an early day," 
Said the clerk as he stood in the door. 

Away sped the lad while the villagers stared, 
And the good clerk musingly said : 

"His horse is a bay — I thought it was gray — 
Well, they both can not one girl wed." 



'Twas midnight at the farm-house 

Of sturdy old farmer Green, 
Where Rose, the light of the festal night, 

Shone beautiful as a queen. 

Without, the moon was watching 

The world from the upper deep, 
And a halo of light on the brow of night 

Awoke chanticleer from his sleep. 

Twice and again he lustily crowed 

The hour of midnight noon, 
And the hound left his bed in the barnyard shed 

To bay at the man in the moon. 



93 




94 



But hist ! a clatter of horses' feet ! 

There's a lull in the merry strain — 
The door opens wide while two horsemen ride 

With spur and whip down the lane. 

"Hail !" cried the rustic farmer, 

"Whether as friends or as foes — 
You have ridden well, but I can not tell 

Which is entitled to Rose. 

"She herself shall decide your suit; 

But, as Cupid is said to be blind, 
I will bandage her eyes, and the arrow that flies 

At random the true one will find." 

Then Rose gave her mother a vial, and said : 
"Hand to Edward, and whisper this hint — 

Say, ' 'Tis otto of rose — that the greyhound goes 
By sight — but the foxhound by scent.' " 

Then stood up the two twin brothers, 

Wide apart in the wedding band, 
And a silence fell on each lip like a spell 

When Rose was led in by the hand. 

"Now choose you which of the twain you will — 

The one to the left or the right ?" 
The blushing Rose said : "The right one I'll wed ; 

I pray you, restore my sight." 

95 




9 6 



"Not yet," said the sturdy farmer, 

"Not yet till the knot is tied." 
And the perfumed lad, in his homespun clad, 

Stood up with the blindfolded bride. 

"Join hands," said the waiting preacher — 
"For better — for worse — through life ? 

Now kiss the bride that stands at your side — 
I pronounce you man and wife." 

And the bandage fell from the downcast eyes 

Of the beautiful Rose in white, 
And the air was perfume to the bride and the 
groom, 

Till the merry dance ended the night. 



97 




9 8 



LINES 

RECITED IN CONCERT BY A CLASS OF BLIND CHIL- 
DREN AT THE ROBERTS PARK CHURCH 

Sweet flowers we bring 

As our glad offering. 

Our eyes do not behold 

The lilies of the field, but He who rolled 

The earth from off His palm 

And whispered to the storm, and it was calm — 

Who spoke those matchless words : ''Let there be 

Hght," 

Can say to each of us : "Receive thy sight." 

In heaven, with undimmed eye, we shall behold 

The King in all His beauty ; and, as gifts of gold 

Were brought unto barbaric kings of old, 

So would we bring 

An offering to our heavenly King, 

In token of the gratitude that swells 

Our hearts ; and with our offering may there be 

The fruits of virtue, that we each may see 

In the paradise of God that living tree 

Whose flowers are immortelles. 

99 




IOO 



OPTIMISTIC 

Sing, Shepherd Boy, sing — 'tis morning, and 

May ; 
Thy singing will keep the bold wolf at bay, 
And he will not steal thy lambs away, 

And thy sweet task be over. 
O Farmer Boy, whistle an idle tune — 
The morning dews will vanish ere noon, 
And the reaper will come with sickle soon, 
And summer will hang its harvest moon 

Above the fields of clover. 

Nut-brown Maiden with flowing hair, 
Sing, without envy of those more fair ; 
Do not burden life's morning with care — 

The leaves are not yet falling. 
Sing, and be glad, at the spinning wheel — 
Sing, and a life of joy unreel — 
Sing, while sunshine covers the plain 
And shadows hide — but do not complain — 
There'll come a day when some lonesome swain 

For a helpmate will be calling. 

IOI 



Sing in thy castle, O Lady fair, 

White is thy brow and black is thy hair — 

Sing love's ditty and never despair, 

Some one will hear thy strain. 
Under thy lattice-barred window a knight 
Even now hears thy song with delight ; 
Only the jasmine screens him from sight — 

O sing love's ditty again. 




102 



ACROSS THE DUNES MY NANNIE 
WAITS 

When morning stars but dimly shine, 

I milk the cows as best I can — 
While streams fly in and out the pail, 

I milk the cows and think of Nan. 
And when the stars again appear, 

And all the cares of day are gone, 
I cross the dunes and think of Nan, 

As I go plodding, plodding on. 
My Nannie waits, my Nannie waits, 

At eventide she waits for me — 
When stars are dim and night comes on, 

Across the dunes she waits for me. 

All day I guide the stubborn plow, 

And furrows turn as best I can — 
While in and out the furrows run, 

I plow and think of little Nan. 
When droning bee no longer flies 

And whip-poor-will sings weirdly, 
With joyful song I cross the dunes 

Where Nannie sits and waits for me. 

103 



My Nannie waits, my Nannie waits, 
At eventide she waits for me — 

When stars appear and night comes on, 
She waits across the dunes for me. 




104 



LUX ET TENEBRyE 

"In one of the wards of the Hospital for the 
Insane at Indianapolis we encountered a young 
lady who was rational on all subjects except one, 
which the doctor designated as 'brother in the 
army.' She carried a guitar, and the doctor stated 
that she improvised her music. At his request 
to sing for us, she ran her fingers over the strings 
for a few moments, all the while gazing thought- 
fully into the open court ; then, with a voice full 
of pathos, she sang and recited with impassioned 
eloquence." 

To a beautiful spot on the Tippecanoe 

My spirit is wandering now. 
I see the green hills reposing in peace, 

And nestled among them my home. 
An apple tree shades the spacious old porch, 

Whose pillars with ivy were crowned 
In days that are gone — in years that are past — 

When I lived with Brother at home. 
O, the wild bugle sounds loudly at noon and at 

midnight, 
Piercing my soul and rending my heart-strings 
asunder. 

105 




io6 



Twenty summers ago I was born in that cot, 

And there in my childhood I played ; 
I sat in the trees that sheltered the spring, 

And wondered if I could grow old. 
I followed the paths of the orchard which led 

To the trees where the sweet apples grew — 
When I was a bareheaded, barefooted girl, 

And lived with my Brother at home. 
O, the loud tramp of an army with music and 

banners 
Fills the whole earth, and startles the nations 
from slumber. 

In the long winter nights Brother Henry and I 

Would list to the moan of the pines, 
And list to the tales our grandmother told, 

Of heroes who went to the wars. 
In summer we climbed the weather-worn cliffs 

To look at the river below — 
And sweet was the music of waters and birds 

When Brother and I were at home. 
O, the loud roar of cannon awakes me from slum- 
ber — 
O, in my dreams I hear saber and musketry rattle. 

But the lights have gone out in that beautiful cot, 
And all the sweet flowers are dead — 



107 



The spring has gone dry, and birds sing no more, 
In the sweet apple tree by the porch ; 

For mother soon died when Brother went off 
To battle, and I was sent here — 

O Brother, come to me and let us go back, 
And dwell in our cottage again. 

Hark ! hear the battle cry ! see how the wounded 
fall bleeding — 

Lo ! in the smoke of battle my Brother is dying. 



0\ 



Wf$fo£\ 





•'- -It- • rfe' 



1 08 



THE OLD MAN DREAMS 

I'm dreaming a dream this afternoon 

Of days accounted olden, 
When laughter played on a silver harp, 

And youthful smiles were golden. 
I'm dreaming a dream of the olden time, 
When life was smooth as the poet's rhyme ; 
When my feet were bare and my cheeks were 

brown, 
And my heart was light as the eider's down. 

I'm dreaming a dream this evening time 

Of her whose love grew stronger — 
We're walking down the homestead lane, 

While evening shades grow longer. 
My daughters I see, and my little boys, 
Those pledges of love that crowned my joys — 
And the babe comes, too, and we all now meet, 
While I kiss them oft. — O my dreams are sweet ! 

I'm dreaming no more this lone midnight, 

As footsteps give me warning 
That soon I'll hear the string-latch rise 

And angels say "Good morning." 

109 



I'm dreaming no more this lone midnight- 
The embers give but a feeble light, 
And I hear a step in the outer halls — 
Good night- 



-good night- 



-the angel calls. 




no 



THE MORNING OF IMMORTALITY 

As one who sits alone on frowning cliff 
And looks across the ever-moaning sea 

At ships that drop from sight- 
As one who bends the knee 

When stars come out at night 

And belfry bells are calling you and me — 

As one who sees the flight of birds 
When winter comes apace — 

As one who gazes lovingly and last 
Upon his mother's face — 

So Age sits on the summit of the years, 

And listens to the curfew calling him to rest. 

Complacently he hears the folding wings of time, 
And falls to sleep upon his mother's breast. 

And while one curtain drops, another lifts, and lo ! 
The rising sun and City Beautiful appear — 

And, radiant with immortal youth, he says : 
"Dear Lord, I'm here." 



in 




112 



Hopeful and happy are they who sing, 

Who look ahead to the wedding ring, 

And mint and cummin and anise bring. 

These live not zvhere the shadows fall 

On broken column and ruined wall, 

But out in the meadows of new-mown hay, 

Where the lark soars upward and sings all day. 



"3 




H4 



